


two spritz, please

by asteronomic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Anorexia, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25925740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asteronomic/pseuds/asteronomic
Summary: When in Rome, do as your inner demons do.(TW: anorexia, purging)
Relationships: Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	two spritz, please

**Author's Note:**

> spritz: a popular Italian cocktail (? aperitivo) comprised of an aperitif, usually Aperol or Campari, plus Prosecco, plus soda water.  
> ‘pancia piena’ - full stomach

“Two spritz, please,” says Ludwig, and there’s a sudden, twisting pain in Feli’s chest. 

That’s - so that’s around eighty-five for the Aperol, forty for the Prosecco, hopefully zero for the soda but god, what if they used gassosa? That’s another, what, thirty? Forty? No, it’s too much, it’s too _much_ , he can feel his thighs brushing against each other, _it’s too much_.

“Uh, actually,” he says in Italian, and the bartender raises an eyebrow. “Whisky and zero cola for me.”

It’s a beautiful night. The heady scent of Roman summer heat mingles with cigarette smoke and the evening hubbub drifts over on a gentle breeze. Although the sun set a while ago, the street isn’t packed yet, but their little bar is filling up fast and it’s over a readjusted mask that Ludwig gives him a suspicious glare.

“You told me you wanted to do a proper aperitivo, this time,” he says in English, and now it’s more guilt than fear churning in Feli’s stomach.

“I changed my mind,” he says. “Stomach pain. Too much acid in a spritz. You know you don’t have to wear the mask in a bar, right?”

“You have stomach pain because you skipped dinner. If you ate something, you’d feel better.”

Feli forces his mouth into something resembling a sheepish smile. “I forgot we weren’t eating out. Silly me. Take off your mask, baby, you look too much like a tourist.”

Ludwig shakes his head, but unhooks his mask anyway, slipping it in his shirt pocket. His eyes flit from the way Feli’s elbow is resting on the table, to the group of Americans behind them, to the untouched bottle of sanitiser in the entrance. “I think they think you’re a tourist too. You’re too skinny to be Italian, right now.”

It’s a fucking stupid comment, but Feli’s stomach untwists itself a little anyway. Sweet, sick relief. “Bullshit, that’s not a thing. Italians aren’t fat, we  _ respect  _ food, we don’t _binge_ on it. If they think I’m a tourist, it’s your fault for making me speak English.”

Whatever slightly heated response Ludwig has to that is interrupted by the slamming down of a bright orange spritz and a dark whisky-coke. It’s not the bartender who served them. Yeah, this guy definitely thinks they’re tourists. Feli doesn’t actually mind that; while Ludwig sips his spritz, he looks around at the other customers. They’re mostly Italians, too. Fat, fat, beer belly, spaghetti stomach, pancia piena. It’s revolting. 

(The Americans are drinking cocktails - a margarita, around one-seventy, a gin tonic, probably around one-twenty, and -  god \- a piña colada - well over two-fifty.)

(Hopefully his English accent has been Germanised enough at this point that no one thinks he’s one of them.)

The whisky-coke tastes like a mixture of shit and piss. Feli sips it slowly, and Ludwig orders another Spritz in the meantime. He leaves the slice of orange in his first glass. Untouched, liqueur-soaked. The whisky and caffeine joins forces with the anxiety fucking with Feli’s stomach. The chips that came with the spritz glisten, salty, oily, golden, beautiful in the candlelight. 

Whisky, five centilitres - approximately fifty. Coke Zero - one, maybe two. It’s okay. He skipped dinner. They’ve walked fifteen kilometres today. It’s an acceptable number. It’s safe. 

God, he wants a chip. Fuck, that orange looks good.

“The thing is, Feli,” Ludwig begins, and from the way he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, Feli can tell already that he isn’t going to like the rest of the sentence. “The thing is, you’re fucking gorgeous. You’re incredibly attractive, even while the rest of us look like shit after lockdown. I mean, when was the last time I worked out? God, I don’t know. But, like, Feli, you see, you would look so much better if you just, sort of, let yourself be a bit fatter.”

Feli wants to throw up.

“Just - fucking - eat some cake, Feli, _please_ ,” Ludwig continues. His cheeks are red. Apparently his tolerance for brightly coloured liqueurs is inferior to that for beer. “What did you even eat today? Like, a salad for lunch? A coffee for breakfast? And it’s thirty-four degrees and we walked through all the ancient remains Rome even has to offer? Feli, I _love_ you—“

—and that’s the bit that hurts the most, because with all the rest of them, all the others that sit him down and talk to him, Feli can just block it out, just choose not to care, bur  Ludwig \- Ludwig loves him - and he loves Ludwig too, and so every denial, every refusal, every time he shakes it off it just hurts  so much more because he  _ cares _ —

“—but _fuck_ , you don’t look healthy. You don’t look _happy_. You _aren’t_ happy. But fuck, what can I say? I can’t imagine what it’s like, and when I try to help, you just deny it, so what the fuck can I _do_ —“

Ludwig trails off, his alcohol-glazed gaze taken by some vague movement in the background. His third spritz arrives. Feli eats the orange slice, and then a chip, and then another one.

They get gelato on the way home, and Feli throws up the contents of his stomach back in the hotel room. 

**Author's Note:**

> During lockdown, outdoor exercise (among many other things) was banned in Italy. This worked out pretty well corona-wise, since the figures dropped low enough that after a few months, life could return to some level of normality. However, it wasn’t great if you lived in a small flat in the city centre with no outside space and your eating disorder told your brain that you weren’t allowed to eat if you hadn’t exercised. Poor Feli. 
> 
> NB - what’s written above doesn’t actually reflect the author’s view on any nationality. Obviously, the Italian population is not fat. Rather, an eating disorder can cause a sufferer to have a skewed version of reality, and the brain exaggerates everything they see into black and white - ‘fat’ and ‘thin’.
> 
> (Also, being fat is never a bad thing - BE well-fed. Enjoy food. Enjoy life. Ignore Boris Johnson.)


End file.
